


Three Sizes

by Emilys_List



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Amber - Freeform, Amber's mom, Angst, M/M, Sex, The Grinch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilys_List/pseuds/Emilys_List
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amber's presence can manifest itself outside of House's head, too. A story a little bit about that, but mostly about how the Grinch's heart grew three sizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Sizes

**Author's Note:**

> These characters do not belong to me and are the property of David Shore, Fox, et al. I request the use to play with them for a spell, but no more than that.

"Wilson! I hope you're already naked because I'm going to fuck you into next week."

 

He stops short when he sees an older woman sitting with Wilson in the kitchen, teacups on the counter. He drops his backpack.

 

"House, this is Jane Volakis. Jane, this is... a colleague." The only thing that would have made this moment more special is if they were still living in Amber's apartment. House gulps and has empathy enough to blush.

 

Jane offers her hand. "Dr. House," she says as they shake, and it seems that many thoughts, many responses pass over her face. She aims for tact. "My daughter spoke very highly of you."

 

House is relieved that she looks very little like Amber. (Seeing an aged vision of Amber would surely necessitate another stay at Mayfield.) Then again, he still doesn't know what she's doing in his home and why Wilson isn't naked as promised earlier in the day. He doesn't know what to say, but also aims for tact and settles on, "So what brings you to Princeton?"

 

Her face is pleasant enough, but it's then that it sets into grooves and hard lines. "I have lung cancer."

 

He thinks that they could have a competition: Who has the sadder, more damaged life experience? House might have a run for his money this time. He can't say anything, anything at all, and so he looks to Wilson, annoyed. Apparently it's not enough for Wilson's psyche to be filled with dead and dying patients, now he has to bring one into their home. Someone who's more than a patient. Wilson is never getting laid again.

 

House shakes his head slowly, staring at the cold slate floor. Finally he says, "I am... sorry to hear that."

 

Wilson stands. "We're going to the hospital. I'll be home a little later." Jane stands too, and now he can clearly see the effects of cancer on her body and skin, and her sickness is making him sick. Wilson helps her into her coat and she turns, smiling.

 

"Sorry if I ruined your plans for this evening," she says. "James was able to squeeze me in."

 

'James being able to squeeze me in was my plan for the evening' starts in his brain but doesn't leave his mouth, and he's both proud of and disappointed in himself. Instead he says, "Great," and they say their goodbyes.

 

He plays Schumann on the piano until he's bored, then looks at US Weekly until he's bored. When he's feeling like nails in his eyeballs would be a welcome distraction, he calls Wilson.

 

"'Fuck you into next week?'" Wilson asks by way of a greeting.

 

Ignoring Wilson, he asks, "Why are you keeping things from me?"

 

A measured, weathered sigh slides into his receiver. "I didn't know when she'd be able to come in, since she's not feeling so hot. Cancer has such a funny effect on people!"

 

House yanks his glasses off his face and puts his feet up on the coffee table. "So what are you going to do to fix this?" His voice barely rises at the end of his question.

 

"We're starting with chemo and I'm talking to Chase about surgery." Wilson's voice suddenly sounds far away, faint and small. "I, uh... I'm going to be here for awhile. Back breaking sex is going to have to wait."

 

"...Are you with people?"

 

"Standing in Cuddy's office with members of the board, why?"

 

House wishes that Wilson were here simply so he could throw a blunt object at his person. "You didn't know when she'd be coming in, but you did know it would happen at some point, unless she croaked. Why didn't you--" He doesn't get to finish the rest of that sentence because all he hears is dial tone.

 

If he was a thirteen-year-old girl, he'd go to bed and cry his eyes out because his boyfriend is being mean, or not paying attention to him, or maybe there's some other problem without a name. But he's not a thirteen-year-old girl, and he doesn't have lung cancer, so he watches Glenn Beck and falls into a restless sleep.

 

He wakes up on the couch being poked by Wilson -- and not in the way he'd prefer.

 

Wilson looks world weary. Clarification: Wilson always looks world weary, but tonight he wears an expression of overwhelming weariness not easily abated with the usual salves of orgasms, booze and orgasms. House smooths at Wilson's face with one hand, one palm, blaming such a gesture on his semi-conscious state. When Wilson was younger his face was hard planes and angles, a shining steel infrastructure, but that has faded into something softer and more vulnerable. He's still vexingly boyish and handsome, but now his face reflects the massive amount of shit he's been through -- mostly because of House. And yet, maybe there's something else there too when he looks at House, because of House -- love, or at least co-dependency.

 

Though perhaps not in this exact moment.

 

"Go to bed," he advises, expression blank.

 

"You look like shit," House mumbles and Wilson backs away, disrobing on his way to the bedroom. Eventually House makes it to standing, cane in hand, and follows the path of clothes playing the part of bread crumbs -- suit jacket, tie, belt, pants, shirt. It is extremely unlike him to behave, well, so House-like, and he is intrigued.

 

When he arrives at the bedroom door's threshold, disappointment sets in. He's still wearing his undershirt and boxers, like temple garments, and he's settling into bed, covers covering every inch. House sighs, then knocks his cane twice against the hardwood floor -- fuck the late hour and downstairs neighbors. "I don't want to talk," Wilson says, his voice muffled through layers of armor.

 

"I like her." He waits at least two long minutes before speaking again, and he idly wonders if Wilson fell asleep, but he can hear labored, anguished breathing. Same old, same old. "I thought she'd be evil or insipid, but she's just -- nice. Pleasant. Don't kill her, okay?" Never mind how much this is killing him. He just wants to go to bed with Wilson and be naked, sweaty, coming -- but he has yet to re-appear, or say anything. Sometimes he just hates the shit out of Wilson, he thinks, climbing into bed and spooning him, one arm snaking across his middle. Truly mortifying.

 

Wilson's body relaxes upon contact. He rolls towards him and looks at House so plaintively that it makes him ache, so he kisses Wilson, effectively ending any more visuals of that sad sack expression. He kisses back and House, encouraged, strokes his chest, strokes lower -- "What?" he asks sharply when Wilson pulls away.

 

He shakes his head. "Can you wait ten minutes before grabbing my dick?"

 

"Ten minutes is arbitrary," House says petulantly.

 

Usually Wilson's silence and disinterest in sex sends House to the living room for porn turned up too high -- but tonight is a surprise to everyone. As ill-fitting as this empathy is, he wears it. And as obnoxious as this silence is, he's willing to tolerate it if it's what Wilson needs. Of course, that's when he opens up, predictably unable to just sit and think and shut the fuck up.

 

"I didn't want to see her because -- you know. Last time was the funeral. And now, to see her under such... undesirable circumstances... and the worst part was, she was so -- lovely. Patient. She wasn't angry or grieving. She was at peace. How do you do that? How do you lose your daughter and learn you have lung cancer and just...? And! And! Someone comes in talking about how he wants to fuck your dead daughter's boyfriend. She, by the way, wishes us well. She said she thought you were much nicer than Amber said you were. And just as handsome, if not more so." He's almost out of breath when he finishes ranting, and House hopes his eyes don't betray the mix of fondness and amusement churning through his body.

 

Finally he says, "Good to know. Maybe you should give me her number."

 

"...nothing to say about me sleeping with cancer patients?"

 

"Not when you do the work for me." Then, "Besides, it's not you who's 'handsome, if not more so.'"

 

Wilson inches closer. "I miss her," he confesses quietly, applying his lips to House's pulse. He knows. Of course he knows. His stomach knows too, by the way it drops, but he knows and accepts this particular reality as best as he can. House nods and loops one arm back around Wilson, and winces when he feels and hears him start to cry. Nothing worse than Wilson feeling sorry for himself. "I'm a mess. Don't say a goddamn thing."

 

So he doesn't. He kisses his neck and undresses them both, and they go to bed.

 

He wakes to the not unpleasant sensation of a hot mouth around his cock. His eyes stray to the clock -- 2:47 -- then they close as one hand joins the mouth and starts to pump his shaft. Unexpected. Cool. "Hi," he says weakly, feeling the results of Wilson's sucking all throughout his body, his muscles tightening, clenching. 'Hi.' That's how good it was, that 'hi' was the best he could do. He weaves his fingers through Wilson's hair, tugging lightly as he feels teeth graze his tip, feeling grateful and yet vaguely entitled to this particular blow job. Wilson takes him back into his mouth, deeply, and makes a little hum of contentment. House shudders. The friction makes him painfully hard, and his hips come off the mattress in one thrust, his cock momentarily deeper in Wilson's throat. He is going to die, maybe, his heart racing, his vitals surely all over the place, and he couldn't be happier about it. Wilson holds him in his mouth, all that tight pressure, and sucks hard. "What -- happened...?" House sort of asks, his brain too turned on and sleep-deprieved to form a proper question.

 

Pulling his lips away for a half second, he says, "You are really something," and for the first time ever those words aren't tinged with sarcasm, but are bathed in something that might be admiration. He only has a brief nanosecond to process these words, and tone, before Wilson's mouth is back and determined.

 

House pumps into Wilson's mouth, and Wilson pins down his hips, his head bobbing up and down in fast, agonizing jerks until House comes, his orgasm spiking fiercely as Wilson swallows him down, cheeks hollow, and rides it out with him until the end. House may have screamed. He definitely screamed. Wilson, as always, lingers just a moment too long, lips and breath hovering around his scar, the act of lighting a candle in church. Usually House mounts his offensive quickly, words aimed directly at Wilson's soft, girly, emotional core, but before he parts his lips to speak, Wilson crawls up his body, kissing his neck when he arrives. "You woke me up," House says weakly and Wilson bites back a smile.

 

"That's all I get?"

 

"No," he says, stretching out the word. Wilson had blown him to exhaustion, but his hand creeps down Wilson's abdomen as it did earlier -- only this time, its journey continues undeterred. He closes the space between them and kisses Wilson, tasting himself on his lips, then on his tongue. He strokes Wilson's cock, already most of the way hard, with a soft rhythm more than familiar to both of them. The way he likes it. Wilson breaks their kiss and his forehead presses into House's shoulder, breathy sighs escaping in time with House's hand.

 

To be sure, he is overjoyed when he is fucking Wilson, or when he himself is bent over any piece of stationary furniture, but there is something maddeningly pleasurable in being so close, kissing him as the rest of his body shudders and jerks. Being centimeters from his face as he comes, observing the minute movements of his mouth going slack and his face tensing then relaxing. Over years of examination, he can now say with certainty when Wilson is about to come -- which, in this particular instance, is about a minute in the future. His fist around his cock speeds up, maintaining a slight turn of wrist to do it, and he feels Wilson grab onto the back of his head, forcing him into a kiss, lips crushed to do it. "Fuuuuuck" escapes Wilson's lips, and he comes all over House's hand, his body wracked with shudders as House stares at his gorgeous contortions. They are sticky -- sweat and semen -- but neither make a move to do anything about it. Wilson collapses half on top of House, grazing his nipple with a kiss.

 

"So my cock is inspiring enough to wake you from sleep?" House asks, mostly to break the quiet.

 

Wilson sighs into his skin. "Couldn't sleep. All thoughts were about your cock." He's quiet for a long time, reflective, and House traces the shadows on the walls with his eyes. "There's a part of me that died with her. That's just the way it is." House's hand skims Wilson's back lightly, a gesture that could have been mistaken for comforting, but Wilson backs away too quickly. "See -- this is what I'm talking about! What the fuck was that?"

 

"What the fuck was what?" House retorts, immediately irate. He rolls away.

 

"Stroking my back."

 

"I was not... doing that. And what -- did you say that thing about Amber to test me? There's definitely a special place in Jewish hell for you."

 

Wilson flips him back over after some effort. "It wasn't a test. But your reactions have been. Startling? Uncharacteristic? Kind? Empathe--"

 

"I get it," House says, cutting him off as fast as possible. Wilson is getting off on this too much, and perhaps a little more poison is worth it to get it over with -- "I know," he clears his throat, "I know that you think I'm an asshole and a misanthrope, and you're wrong because I have an eternally cheerful disposition -- where was I going with this?"

 

"Asshole and--"

 

"Thanks." His voice drops and it's entirely soft as he says, "There are many things I say and do that are hurtful to you, and most of the time I don't really care -- but I know that helping to kill your girlfriend was kind of a big deal." Scary words tinged with sarcasm. Still, there's no denying therapy has helped. "Unforgivable, really, and--" I don't deserve your forgiveness, he thinks. "When it comes to this... whatever you need, I can try."

 

Wilson's eyes slide away, and he can't tell where he's gone. When they slide back, they are warm and content and tired. "Thank you," he says softly. He rolls away, his back to House, and he's unsure what that means. He moves behind him, his chest to Wilson's back, and heaves a heavy sigh before closing his eyes.

 

He doesn't sleep.

 

/end.

**Author's Note:**

> I could not get that Grinch line out of my head as I wrote this. I feel like everything post-mental breakdown has been about House's heart growing and I just love it. (And yet he is still very much fucked up. I love that too.) The other reference to three sizes? Well, to be delicate, it has to do with penis.
> 
>  
> 
> :D
> 
> A couple more things: This is my first finished House fic! And it went un-beta'd. If anyone is interested in some light editing, please let me know! Thanks for reading -- I'm stoked you've made it this far.


End file.
